"Maya," Marko called from the living room. "He stopped crying."
She walked in. Luka lay on his play mat, staring at his own hand. He turned it slowly, fingers opening and closing, as if seeing it for the first time. Then — miracle — he smiled. A real smile, not gas. His eyes met Maja's, and in that moment, something clicked.
The PDF loaded — scanned pages, slightly crooked, some underlined by a previous owner in yellow highlighter. She skimmed to the chart: Mentalni skokovi u prvih 14 mjeseci .
She knelt beside him. "You figured something out, didn't you?"
